Aftermath
by Carumati
Summary: As Watson chases after the shadow of Holmes, he inadvertently brings forth feelings that he never knew existed. John/Sherlock. Slash.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: I don't own Sherlock Holmes. I swear my slash goggles weren't on at all during the film: the movie practically begged for this. This takes place after the second Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows._

As Watson chases after the shadow of Holmes, he inadvertently brings forth feelings that he never knew existed.

_Warnings: slash, unbetaed, sexual situations, sans page breaks_

"I have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love."

**AFTERMATH**

_Chapter 1_

The moment he spotted the elder Holmes' breathing device in the rather innocuous package, he deduced… no… he knew that Sherlock was alive. The certainty raged far into the apex of his heart and fanned out along his veins, bringing about a new goal to finish, giving him a new quest whereas prior he had been wandering quest-less. Immediately his mind flew in the four compass directions into the far corners of the Earth, and then he was overwhelmed with emotions.

There was anger: anger for being used _again_ as a means to an end- to what sort of end, he wasn't quite sure; but ignorance was apparently and will always be a vital element. Not to mention that his dear friend had once again left him in the dark, about his falsified death no less! It's the absurd lack of trust that showed in the detective's plans that initially left him exasperated and now hurt. Perhaps there was an underlying misconception that John Watson could not keep a secret to save his life or that his face could be read as easily as the Daily Gazette. The second emotion was resignation because this was an action that Sherlock _would_ attempt for his harebrained schemes that does not so much as toe the line of social niceties as merrily dance along it. The third emotion was anxiety because even if Sherlock had an oxygen breathing apparatus on his person, he had previously suffered from wounds that would see him dead if not for his ridiculous injected concoctions, the aftermath of a physical fight with Moriarty, subjected to the long fall of Reichenbach and its freezing temperatures. If the man had survived the initial impact, then Moriarty must certainly also had.

Who knows what happened in the latter struggle? The doctor closed his eyes and calmed his breathing. His imagination was growly increasingly morbid these days.

But the final emotion that left the final, lasting image was the burning need to find that blasted man: to see and feel the proof that the funeral was_ meaningless_, that there was no tragedy. And that need spurned him as he hurriedly asked Mary if the delivery boy had left or not. Not surprisingly, the lad had disappeared off a side street: he was perhaps the next generation of the Baker Street Irregulars. As John grabbed his coat and quickly kissed his beloved wife farewell, he noticed that she grimaced. He didn't take time to dwell on the puzzling response.

He strolled through the busy streets, dimly wondering why Sherlock would send him a small clue instead of appearing at the door in person and relishing John's stunned face. '_The reason,'_ a small voice sniped in his mind, '_might be that he does not want to see you.'_ He promptly discarded the reason as preposterous. The thought, however, did stick and made the walk that much less pleasant.

"I pray for his soul every night. It's dreadful, simply dreadful." Mrs. Hudson tutted as she puttered from one corner to the other of 221B Baker Street, "Mr. Holmes was quite the man. Oh, please excuse me." She ducked her head low, pulled out her handkerchief and blew into it, "His usual antics led me to struggle to describe him to my fellows when we chat about our days. But he is a good man and I miss him terribly." _Honorable. Brave. Genius. Loyal. Friend._ The doctor's mind quickly supplied adjectives without trying: but he kept silent as he organized Holmes' belongings, keeping the man's old clothes in a side pile and assisting Mrs. Hudson in tossing out some of his more extravagant experiments- mold growth, termite mounds, shrunken heads, etc. Between hanging the old bed sheets and beating them, she remarked, still sniffing, "I understand these can be held for sentimental value, dear, but you must learn to let his memory go, for your sake and for his."

The air was hardly clear from the accumulating dust but the windows were, after much difficulty, finally opened. The relatively fresh London atmosphere and the indoor smell of innate Sherlock eccentricities made for an interesting combination. Dr. Watson laughed. Before he headed home, he promised to return the next day.

"I don't understand why you are going about in this manner," Mary exclaimed the following evening, leaning on the door frame as he returned from Baker Street with a familiar violin under his arm, "Sherlock is dead, John." She wore a simple off-white dress that would not have been suitable for outdoor wear, the one that he, once confided to her in private quarters, found lovely on her figure.

Humming contentedly, John kissed his wife on the cheek and smiled, "Of course he's not. Recall the package that I got, he must be alive, I know it." He stepped over the threshold and absentmindedly began plucking at the violin's strings. It would be better to store the violin in a secured location before beginning his meal. Even though he was experiencing the starting pangs of hunger, he knew how much the instrument meant to his friend.

"The package doesn't mean anything. It's a small breather, there was no note, there is no other information. You can't come to strong conclusions with such flimsy clues!" Mary wrapped her arms around herself and nibbled on her lower lip. In return, Watson stared passively at her, waiting for her to continue. She slowly approached him and held onto his arms with her small, feminine hands, "I'm worried about you, John. I really am."

"For what?" He asked, brows slowly rising in consternation.

Her grip tightened, "Because you don't see! I know you're devastated by your friend's death, but this has gone beyond reason: this is an obsession. I am also upset by the loss of a great man but I can put it pass me and live on in his memory. You hoped for any alternative to these unfortunate circumstances that you're starting to believe yourself. Your mental faculties cannot accept the fact that he will not return and you might descend into further madness," she cried, bringing him closer so she can rest her head on his jacket. "This Sherlock is a part of your imagination!"

His face darkened and his body stiffened in a barely noticeable manner but it was enough to make her glance up. "I believe," he responded coldly as he gently pulled away from her, "that my perceptions are perfectly within reason." With that, he kissed her forehead, "No need to fret, darling. I know that he is alive and well." He continued up the stairs without further hurdles to find a somewhere to place the violin. It would probably be more prudent to hide it from sight, since Mary was emotionally overwhelmed and would probably, in a fit, destroy the instrument if given a chance. He sighed and wondered how long it'll take her to calm back down. At the foot of the stairs, Mary wrung her hands, collapsed onto the chaise lounge and began to cry.

Two days later, John H. Watson was once again at the mercies of Mrs. Hudson's reminiscing as they sorted through the various disguises that Sherlock had once donned. The elderly woman had obviously made a full recovery from her earlier bout of mourning. "I remember when he would hide himself in the very smoke of his tobacco pipe. He had the notion that the fumes would conceal not only his form but his shadow and his scent and likened it to hiding in plain sight in the London air. Oh, the ideas he would conjure! I must admit that I miss those radical thoughts." Her line of sight drifted to windows beholding the busy urban streets as she murmured, "Life seems bland without them." The duo spent a half hour in contemplative silence. "I'm sorry that you have to listen to an old woman's dithering, dear, and I thank you for helping me. No other men," she sniffed daintily in outrage, "that I was familiar with were brave enough to sort through these contents."

John could sympathize with the men that the housekeeper was peevishly hinting at. Just a few hours ago, a mysterious bulbous object on a plate hidden in the back corner of a cabinet had spewed a foul pus-like substance all over the poor woman. He had thought that there was an uncounted for cadaver from the resulting scream. It spoke volumes of her character when she washed herself and continued on with her self-assigned duties with renewed determination.

As Mrs. Hudson unpacked green jumpers from boxes, she exclaimed in delight, "Look here, Dr. Watson. These military uniforms are so handsome and they look authentic. And there's a pair! Did he convince you into one of these too? I think I can remember that day when the pair of you headed out with these ensembles." She sighed as she headed back to the closet, digging through more various commodities and initiating a continuous racket of metal clinking upon metal, "Occasionally, I wonder about his ability to convince you into whatever insane plans he had. I honestly never could figure out why you followed them, and you did," she added pointedly, looking back, "despite all protests. And yet," her muffled voice continued as she turned back, "the plans have never failed before."

Dr. Watson gave a long-suffering sigh in response as he kicked aside a skull that was coated in some sort of preserving fluid. He arched his back and popped the stiff joints in his neck. It was getting late and he had working here all day long, having started early enough for the housekeeper to offer him breakfast. Sherlock's numerous belongings conjured all sorts of adventures. It grew increasingly apparent that the detective was a hoarder. Thankfully, after watching the shadows slowly shrink, grow and eventually darken, the clean-up was nearly finished. It would take another session before everything is finalized, stored, donated, or discarded. The corners of his mouth twitched at the thought of Mycroft receiving the majority of his brother's inventory.

Mrs. Hudson did not notice the sudden lack of attention and continued on. "It must be the close companionship you two shared- that sort that takes many years to develop. You had known each other for a very, very long time. Why, I was there to watch the relationship slowly blossom! That type of friendship you two shared, it's not common and numerous persons would envy-"

"Mrs. Hudson," Dr. Watson squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose, "please."

The old woman spun around and placed a hand over her open mouth, "Oh, beg pardon, I apologize." The silence was broken by the noises beyond the windows, of woman chiding kids of playing in the streets, of men chatting with men, of boys yelling headlines from newspapers, of horses and motors and activity, the liveliness that comes from a city. A few minutes passed until the housekeeper could not stand the tension any longer. "If I may," she hesitantly ventured, "How is Mrs. Watson?"

John paused in his work and stared at the expectant woman with an indescribable look. He opened his mouth and then closed it, shutting his emotions from observation as he struggled to find the words of a situation that he could not truly comprehend. He had not talked to his wife beyond frigid greetings and farewells since her confession of worrying for his mental state and had received many entreaties, concerns and hysterics in return. A small bubble of irritation formed at the base of his heart at the thought; he felt no inclination to repair the relationship anytime in the near future. It was a despicable decision and one that he would never venture in public. Finally, he managed to find some strength to force out a smile as it was not the elderly lady who was at fault. "It's lovely. The married life," he lightly replied, "is much different than that of a bachelor." Mrs. Hudson returned his smile and changed to subject to her own late husband.

Turning back to his side of the room and tuning out her one-sided conversation, he brooded on his thoughts. He understood on an instinctual level that a paradigm shift has occurred, but he could neither deduce the end result nor find the source. Sometime between watching Sherlock fall of the side of the cliff side with stunned horror and retrieving the package that was his only clue for hope, his soul had been shaken- he felt more... open minded and aware and a bit guilty for not appreciating such a treasured relationship that he had held with the man. The idiom that stated "absence makes the heart grow fonder" could not have been more aptly provided. In fact, it was that fondness that Mary was convinced had grown into worrisome, unfounded conviction and obsessive notions.

"Please John, listen to me!" She had cried yesterday in their home as he had dismissed her after another argument. "That is all I ask from you. Have reason!" None-the-less, they had embraced moments later, such were the ways of a newly wedded couple, and he had breathed in the scent of her Spanish-red hair and found it strangely lacking in vitality.

Wait a moment. …Mary's hair isn't red.

The doctor blinked out of his thoughts and realized that he was holding onto a flamboyant evening wear of rich scarlet and trimmings of other assorted royal colors and ruffled velvet smooth to the touch that had the slight scent of... As he stared at the dress in his hand, as his eyes wandered further into the closet full of drag accessories, his mind conjured images of Sherlock Holmes as a woman, able to trick Moriarty's men with something akin to charm.

John H. Watson violently threw the dress to the wooden floor with such vehemence in an attempt to rid the images in his head that Mrs. Hudson shrieked in surprise. Dazed, he stared at his hands in horror as he recalled pinning Sherlock to the wall, demanding an explanation for interrupting his honeymoon with Mary then followed by lying close to the other man on the train car floor to avoid the bullets overhead. He was lying too close and he could feel the detective's heat through his many layers of clothing and his breath was so close with the familiar scent that never fails to bring up the emotion of ever stranger affection... Watson rubbed his forehead as the housekeeper picked up the large dress with unconcealed bewilderment. After a round of half-hearted apologies and send-offs, Watson stumbled out of the familiar abode as the old woman shouted out recommendations to a good friend of hers that specialized in herbal treatments.

Once he managed to leave the immediate neighborhood, he leaned heavily against the fence post and struggled to regain his bearings. The darkness of the evening offered cover from the occasional pedestrians. Currently, his breath was too quick and his heart rate was too fast. It wasn't that the scent was arousing; it was that the scent reminded him of _Sherlock_. And that was the cusp of the problem, wasn't it? He tilted his head back and gritted his teeth, feeling his pulse jump below his clenched jaw. His headache has grown to the point that it was nearly unbearable.

He adjusted his cap and took one last breath before pushing off his support and continuing down the road. It was going to be an arduous walk back to his bed.

One of the most-disheartening aspects of his search is the lack of further clues. It wasn't as if his friend was purposely sending him along a merry goose-chase; it wasn't a game. Sherlock didn't see fit to leave any other hints with any other people. Not with Mrs. Hudson, not with the elder Holmes, not with any of their past acquaintances, and not with Inspector Lestrade or anyone of the Scotland Yard. In fact, the latter responded with incredulity and short laughter, "Suppose that your deductions are spot on and that he had survived and that the entire funeral was a farce. What the devil would make you think that he would leave something of whimsical sentimental value with _me_?" Dr. Watson had to concede a point but there was still the problem of where he was supposed to go next.

The backdrops of London had not yet been combed through. It was an underground world of poor and destitute, of refuse and trash, of those who never care to show their faces in society for varied reasons. The doctor tapped on the side of the brick wall twice with his cane as he stepped foot into the alleyways. The world was also his past of gambling and debts, when his life metaphorically could sink no lower. ("Watson, mate, how about stepping in for a bit and play a few rounds of cards? It'll be harmless, I tell you!") He missed the days of merry-making. The climb back up to a respectable status had been… struggling.

He was careful not to meet the eyes of those that he does not recognize and even more careful to hold gazes with those that he does for exactly two seconds, long enough to acknowledge presence but short enough to not offend. The denizens were far from the London proper and were painted with shades of grey and brown. If his friend was determined to avoid him, then every one of these people that he observed is a suspect under a disguise. But even that thought wasn't enough to lower his hopes: he banked on his natural inclination to guide him through the process- that the correct glimpse will stir something in his gut that can be likened to subconscious recognition. Though the detective was known for his unpredictable appearances, there was always something about him that Watson can point out that distinguishes him from any other man. Watson called it an ineffable, innate-Sherlock characteristic; Sherlock called it Watson's hound-like tendencies.

Navigating through the cobblestones, he continued to tap occasionally on brick walls out of habit. His feet moved without a thought. He began to breathe shallowly through his mouth to limit the stench wafting upwards. The air was unbearably musty today and it lingered of sweat and other even more distasteful bodily fluids. Some brazen men hugging the sides of the walls called out to him in his various titles and inquired the whereabouts of the detective. "How goes the search for the Professor, Doctor?" He did not pay them any attention as his mind began to wander to other troublesome aspects of his hunt, namely the actual reason for leaving behind the underwater breather. If it wasn't a clue then what was it? Was the Inspector correct in calling it a whimsical sentimental parting gift? He pulled nervously at the brim of his hat. Could it really be that simple and that depressing?

He turned the corner and froze at the scene before him.

Before him were two men in a highly compromised position. The couple was snugly situated in a small niche created by a back entrance of a parlor but they were not discrete about their actions. The taller man, his hat askew on his blond hair, had the other pinned against the wall, his face buried in the other man's neck, seemly biting and sucking at the skin. The smaller man was groaning, his black hair plastered against his face from the sweat, his knees buckling beneath him, the only thing keeping him from collapsing onto the ground was his partner's arms and the single thigh between his legs. Every part of their body was rubbing against one another, sensual and feral, burning with an unseen need. Somewhere in his shock, Watson dimly noted that the blond man had his hand deep in his companion's trousers, moving...

The existence of homosexuality in Victorian England is in denial, if the topic was ever ventured, all efforts would be taken to drive the discussion elsewhere. It isn't dwelled upon, it is seen as unnatural; there are so many opponents citing so many sources against the notion; but it is a part of England and it refuses to die so easily and so is shuffled into the backwaters of the neighborhoods where none of those dangerous ideas can be seen in public. John Watson had no opinion simply because he never thought about it and he had the fortune to never stumble into these situations- except… there's one here, playing before him. His horrified eyes were pinned to the duo as if entranced by the songs of a siren out on sea.

The slighter man was breathing heavily, clutching onto dirty cuffed sleeves as if they were the only thing keeping him grounded. The dominant male possessively growled and his free hand slid under his partner's shirt, slowly pulling it up. His hand then slid down to waist-line to slowly undo the belt buckle. The dark haired man moaned and arched his back, tilting his head up for a kiss, "Watson, Watson... Please, John, I need..."

Snapped out of his reverie, John Watson feverishly shook his head and turned away from the sight. No. That was wrong. His eyes were playing tricks. The smaller man did not have dark hair and a painfully familiar face and a painfully familiar low baritone. The man wasn't Sherlock. Sherlock would never chant his name in that manner. And he wasn't the taller man with the power to turn his partner into a moaning, sexual creature. Watson stepped back to the main path just as the taller man spun his companion around so that his stomach was pressed flat against the wall. There was a vocal gasp and more shifting movements of clothing, finally followed by a series of low grunts and slapping sounds of flesh against flesh: John refused to see any more.

Again, his headache began to build up. On the main alleyway, he stopped and applied pressures to his eyes with the heels of his palms and waited for the dull throbbing to die down.

Mrs. Hudson had always been the fan of the theory that Sherlock Holmes did not have any gender preferences but was rather attracted to enigmas and unique abilities and quick wits which would perfectly explain the scenario of Irene Adler. Of course, preferences wouldn't even equal coitus as Mrs. Hudson was also of the theory that men such as Sherlock Holmes, a once in a lifetime man, would never feel any _sexual_ attraction. It was just the way of things. She had confessed all of this some months ago on one lonely night, "A unique man would have unique tastes or no tastes at all. I've known people whose interest in people were far out-shadowed by their interests in other topics and such things as love and marriage and family simply are not comprehended. You don't quite fit into the category, Sherlock dear, but you are close."

Leaning back against his high-backed chair, Sherlock had pressed his fingers together and side-glanced at Dr. Watson with a single brow raised in amusement, "The conclusion you've reached must have taken a very long time to reason, Mrs. Hudson. Unfortunately," the detective had casually wave his hand at the empty glass sitting on the table beside her, "you've had one too many sherries tonight. Would you like us to assist you to your quarters to retire?"

John Watson had felt the corners of his mouth twitch in amusement as he watched the exchange with lazy contentment. Times of peace such as this were rare and treasured in 221B Baker Street. The housekeeper blankly watched as Sherlock slowly eased himself up from his chair and offered his arm to the lady at the same time moving the glass away from her reach. His actions were smooth and lacked notable effort. The sole light from the fireplace was casting soft shadows, giving the detective an ethereal, supernatural-like effect, meta-human in appearance and aura. Holmes turned to him and smiled, his eyes reflected the dancing orange embers and his silhouette was prominent against the glow. John quietly answered the unasked question, "I'll remain here to wait for it to die," gesturing at the crackling flames, "Go on ahead."

The detective stared at him with an unreadable expression for a few silent seconds before turning back to his charge. The words spoken by him were so soft that the doctor almost thought that they was from the murmurs of the housekeeper, "If you must know, it wasn't that she was right or wrong, it was that I never gave too much of a thought about it. Her latter claim required that I had to actively think against it. One can liken it to the difference between atheism and agnosticism." The next morning, Mrs. Hudson could not recall her speech; Sherlock didn't see the need to bring it up and Watson kept silent.

There was no conclusive answer nor was there ever going to be a real choice. Simply put, Detective Holmes' personal life continued to remain mysterious.

Once out of the hovels of London, Dr. Watson picked a direction and walked down the street with a pleasantly numbed mind and military-like steps until he hit the River Thames. He approached its banks and surveyed the scenery: there was the Tower Bridge nearly completed, across was an industrial manufacturing factory making parts of a ship, on his side was various open pipelines for freely flowing sewage. Somewhere in the distance, he heard a boat's blaring horns.

He slowly blinked, feeling the dull throbbing in his head beginning to fade, leaving him more and more aware of the hot throbbing in his groin. "Bloody hell," he muttered under his breath, dropping his hands into his pant pockets, "Fuck." The word was aptly applied. His response was the background noise of waves washing against the side of the road.

He had always been a fan of the theory that if one ever makes a theory concerning Holmes, the detective would do his best to act against it.

Everyone can attest that they were closest of friends, a relationship grown and spun on time and adventures and trust. Yet there seems to be an ever-expanding gap giving sight to an abyss and it was more and more obvious that no matter how much one knows about Sherlock Holmes, one can never _know _Sherlock Holmes. The shrouded enigma was so cleverly hidden that it was only brought into view after the disappearance of the person that the enigma applied to. Had all these years meant nothing to the detective? Was Watson merely viewed as the other side of the dichotomy, a juxtaposition to aim more awareness to that of the consulting detective?

It can't be true. The time spent in each other's presence must mean something. The utter denial that Holmes expressed to John's own personal affairs (i.e. Mary) must mean something flattering.

John Watson drummed his fingers against the top of his cane: he can't hit a dead end now, not when he's so close, not when he had made so many revelations. There must be something that he's missing… something right under his nose. "That is the problem with you, my dear friend," Sherlock had mentioned once, "You see, you look, but you don't observe."

"How goes the search for the Professor, Doctor?" A grating, hoarse voice asked him from his memories of the impoverished neighborhoods. And as if a candle has been lit to assist him, Watson began to remember.

"Professor James Moriarty," Sherlock had announced with a flourish a couple of weeks prior to the incident at Reichenbach Falls, "The man behind everything from the assassinations to child trafficking to illegal weapons dealing and manufacturing. His hands are dipped in every pie on this side of the hemisphere." The detective had stood before a map of Europe and Asia, dotted with red pins connected by taut red strings. Between the webs were various articles of small and big crimes, disappearances, meetings of diplomats- events which all had the influence of one man. "He is the Napoleon of crime," Holmes had declared, pulling free a small newspaper clipping that depicted the awards ceremony for the venerable professor and flashing it to the doctor.

"Moriarty," John Watson sighed, running a hand through his hair, "Why have I not seen this before? The case _never closed_."

He found himself once again at 221B Baker Street. This time, he not only managed to time his arrival to where Mrs. Hudson had a social call with old friends but he also knew what he was looking for. It was a relief not having a pair of sympathetic eyes pinned on his back every time he lingered on a unique prop. The map was secured in a drawer in an antique, wooden desk of the study. The map was exactly as he had recalled. Each pin represented the leader of a syndicate, either underground or hidden behind official papers. Well-to-do men, men of power and high prestige, men who were seen with the Professor: scattered about the world like snowflakes drifting to the ground. John had blanched at the diagram; the network was intensive and more complex than any common man could imagine. And Sherlock Holmes was determined to become the one-man force to bring it all down.

One can bring up an image of sharp dark eyes and the faint smell of pipe smoke and a voice laced with sleep deprivation and excitement and a penchant for performance, "It would be altogether too simple, now that the leader of the organization, the architecture of the grandiose plan has now disappeared without a trace. Moriarty's plan has one flaw in it which is that it completely relies on him being constantly available as a consultant and financer to keep the structure, this upside down pyramid of unreasonable proportions, standing. There are no successors. The system is incapable of finding a successor of equal caliber." The man had tapped his finger against his mouth and smiled, "Without him, all is needed is a little nudge, a push, a small whisper of doubt, and then whole thing... falls." Everything would come to a halt- it would be too much for the interconnected framework.

Sherlock's plan would be foolproof if only Moriarty's world wasn't aware of his presence. But they know of him and they had been keeping a close eye for anyone resembling him. Even with his official death, the detective was still fresh in the minds of the scouts and spies. His penchant of overconfidence in his skills just might destroy him and this time the second funeral would hold his body, in small identifiable pieces.

"God save the queen," John muttered in disbelief, scanning the contents in his hands, ignoring the mild shaking from his agitated state. He wasn't even sure where to start. With a sigh, he glanced at the aged clock; there were still a few hours of solace before Mrs. Hudson returned, before Mary descends into hysterics. "I need a perspective," he reasoned as he read first article he came across, "If I was Holmes, I would," he leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling, "I would be efficient and go in the order of countries. I would first eradicate all of Moriarty's work in England and then move onto the next closest government by crossing the English Channel into France," he jotted a note down on the map. "Determination of the next course of action hereafter would depend on the ease of my progress and further news from informants." He then stared at the map for a very, very long time.

Somewhere here is a man that he's looking for.

He continued to read in his spare time, memorizing faces and statuses. He enlisted the unofficial help of Inspector Lestrade to make inquiries at Moriarty's college but the board was unsurprisingly tight-lipped about the fate of the Professor's associates. The daily newspapers made casual mentions of specific academic heads resigning from positions, hinting at the unraveling of the criminal infrastructure; the pattern was unnoticed unless someone knew where to look. A memorable report investigated into a scandal between a young girl and a well-known specialist in a branch of cutting edge physics; the article had the small shadow of the late Adler's influence and Sherlock's cunning but in no way mentions either names but instead offered a small list of concerned persons who had described the affair.

Outside of the college, small gossips emerged concerning the director of a well-known meat-packing company who was seen exchanging money with disreputable persons. Under pressure from the media, a retired copper stepped forth and confessed to planting evidence to aid in convicting criminals. A hypnotist was accused by a client of controlling men to aid her in mugging unfortunate wealthy patrons in the street just outside of her door. The list could go on. Every time a name was added to the list, a pin was taken off the map. This was solid proof that Sherlock Holmes was working in the seams of society but there was nothing concrete.

Days passed and Watson still has not managed to glimpse hide or hair of the man.

His impatience manifested themselves in his dreams. One of his dreams of note came from a night of endless wandering until exhaustion, dragging himself to the spare bedrooms so not to wake his wife from slumber, and passing out on top of the sheets still fully clothed.

He spotted Sherlock's silhouette bearing long trench and his favorite hat, standing to one side of the landscape with an unpolished but confident air against the familiar backdrop of the Tower Bridge and the River Thames amidst a crowd of gray and distinct-less pedestrians meandering to and fro, occasionally in the way of his line of sight. "Sherlock!" He yelled, frantically pushing through the people whose numbers seem to grow by the second. "Sherlock! Wait!" No matter how loud he was, no one seemed to hear him. A tall figure knocked against his left shoulder, throwing him back, a slighter woman brushed against his right side and made hasty apologies.

A slight wind blew the detective's messy hair and long coat to one side; the man began to turn away. The distance between them grew with an eerie distortion of perspective. "Sherlock! It's me! John!" His actions were to no avail. The world seemed determined to keep them apart. The gray figures were drifting slowly, garnering as much attention as one would to details at the corner of one's eyes. "Sherlock!" John had a sense that he was running out of time; his heart was beating fiercely within his ribs. Why wasn't his voice heard? Sherlock was walking away from him; blending effectively into a gray-washed city, losing his own significance in a crowd of men wearing frock coats and bowler hats. He was fading at a painfully slow rate: replacing his fear, Watson's frustration rose to new levels.

"_Sherlock!_"

John H. Watson jerked up from his sleep and his eyes snapped open. The room was filled by sounds of his heavy breathing as he threw aside the covers and sat at the foot of his bed, wiping sweat away from his brow. He rested his elbows on his knees and hung his head as he recovered from his nightly ordeal. Lately these dreams were routine occurrences: the pattern consisted of feeling helpless and weak, the inability to change his position as he watches the detective become real no more, a figment of his imagination. As always, as the dream comes to a close, he inevitably wakes up the moment Sherlock blinks out of existence… he's gone.

"He's gone," Mary kept insisting one evening after he had returned from his fruitless search feeling particularly glum. John didn't answer and continued working his way through his meal. The dining room was filled with sounds of silverware clinking on old china, of a knife working through a stubborn piece of meat, of close-mouth mastication. Mary fiddled with her utensils in a manner that he used to find adorable and endearing. Her eyes flitted everywhere but at his face, the displays on the walls, the far end windows with thin curtains, the small designs etched on the table, the lovely rug sitting beneath the table. As he was finishing, Mary peeked at him through her eyelashes and softly spoke, "It hurts me watching you like this, John. This isn't like you."

John set aside his napkin and brought out the newspaper, flipping it open with a snap, "Mary, would you rather I remain indoors and wilt and die like a flower?" His eyes scanned the headlines, found nothing of note, and began the more tedious work of reading between the lines of each individual article. "He's not gone," he said steadily behind the paper barrier, "How many times must I prove it for you to believe me?"

"Once I see you return to your normal bearings," she replied and straightened in her chair. "The evidence that you showed me are still not enough. You're jumping to conclusions because of your personal investment in this case that never was."

"He's not gone."

"You have not seen him since his funeral," she slowly enunciated and emphasized each word.

He bent the top edge of the paper to peer at her with hard eyes, "It doesn't mean anything."

She hid her hands under the table and ducked her head, "It does when I hear you at night crying and calling for him. I know that you sleep in our guest room but our walls are thin, if you've forgotten." He flushed in response. Her lip trembled and her eyes glistened, "I've never seen this single-minded focus within you and your actions are killing our… our marriage," she stumbled noticeably over the last word.

The newspaper, barely read, was placed off to the side. John was well aware that they were entering a conversation topic that begged to be addressed but reluctant to be handled, "I see in no way how Holmes, or as you claim, the ghost of Holmes, is damaging our relationship." He started delicately, leaning across the table and taking her hands in his, "I admit that I might have a hand in the slight decline in our passion for us with my eagerness to find him but it has in no way crippled or killed our marriage. The habits that I've been indulging in lately are also for your benefit, I believe you need a restful sleep, especially with your countenance these days. My long haunts through London, returning in the middle of the night, would only wake you. Please be rest assured that I am not dabbling in any shameful activities and please calm down." He cleanly avoided the topic of his nightmares.

A small laugh that did not associate with happiness escaped from her lips, "I disagree."

"My actions are for your sake," he repeated, "I'm worried about your own anxieties and wish for you to be happy again." He sighed and rubbed his temple, "What happened, Mary, when we used to be carefree and loved each other in a way that we sought no other and were comfortable with each other?" Watson feared that good days were long behind them, no more than a memory, never to return. Merely listening to her histrionics was making him emotionally weary.

She quietly offered after thinking for a few seconds, "The only way for me to heal is for you to stop in your foolish endeavor."

"It's not foolish: it's a reasonable goal to achieve and one that will-" his voice took on a tone of exasperation and began to rise in volume.

"It is to everyone but you!" Mary cut him off, releasing herself from his hold and cradling her hands close to her chest, "You aren't there when friends inquire about your whereabouts and my inability to answer them. Every day they informed me that you were spotted on some corner of London and grow curious about your actions- what am I supposed to reply with? They whispered that I'm replaced in your heart." She momentarily paused to regain her breath, "I cannot stand for this loss of face. What kind of wife am I to you? What of all the promises you gave me during our nuptials?"

"Love, there is no other," John soothed, "You are the only one in my heart."

"You're lying."

The air grew thick with stunned silence and barely restrained anger. Mary's leveled glare was cold and John returned with one equally dark. Slowly, Mary picked up her utensils and began cutting her meat and vegetables into ever smaller pieces. John rested his chin on two hands with fingers laced and stared out the window that glowed yellow and orange- soon the day will darken and the lights must be turned on but the kitchen was still like an aged painting, faded by the sun light. Wordless angry, accusations were thrown and wordless, angry denials were thrown back. But after an eternity, John abruptly stood, pushing his chair back, and stepping to the side.

Alarmed at the motion, Mary looked up suspiciously, "Where are you going?"

"Upstairs," he returned curtly, "to the guest room to not disturb you further."

"You are always welcome to our bedroom," she pointed out.

John Watson chuckled, "With what we have between us? It will not be good for either of our health. I, for one, am still bewildered by your continued mulishness even with all of the information that I had offered you, and only you, because I had trusted to be in your confidence, and had only received the exact opposite." Her face began to fall in despair. With enough effort, he smiled kindly towards her, "I would suggest that we try not to have one of these discussions such as this until I can return to concede defeat or return with my dear friend in my arms. Please don't stop your dinner on my account, the food will turn cold." With his small appraisal finished, he left.

At the foot of the stairs, he heard Mary's voice, "I saw him the day the package arrived," spoken devoid of feelings, barely loud enough to carry to his ears. The words forced him to stop and slowly carried him back to the doorway of where she sat, unmoved. She tilted her head to meet his questioning gaze, "Sherlock, I saw him." Her bitterness grew tangible under the heavy blanket of silence and her smile did not reach her eyes as she casually observed his entire stature change to stone. "Ironic isn't it, how I did and you never did, despite the amount of effort we both invested into his search? I gave none and you gave everything."

"Where?" He managed to choke out from the layers of shock.

(Mary would later sardonically comment that this was the first time in weeks that her husband had spoken to _her_ and _only her_; but, at the time, she found that despite conceding defeat and knowing that the attention her husband was bestowing upon her would be temporary, she managed to feel warm inside.) "I spotted him from my balcony leaving our compound dressed in a tight, one-piece suit that bore the pattern of my favorite chair in the study. I have not seen him since."

He leaned back against the wall, unable to support himself further as his head lowered in thought. As an aside, he realized that the pose he adopted was purely Holmes-esque. He humorously entertained the thought that should the detective ever, truly die, there would be no doubt that he would inhabit Watson's body as a vessel, such in the way that all spiritual mediums have claimed. "Of course," he muttered, "He utilized urban camouflage. He even showed me an example of his disguises before the entire case with Moriarty escalated. It's all so elementary in hindsight." He let loose a sigh accompanied by shaky laughter and sank even further. His eyes snapped back up, "Why did you lie to me then?" He demanded, straining to hold in his anger, "You kept trying to discourage me. Did it not occur to you that if you had helped me, my obsession that you feared would never have reached these levels?"

Mary continued smiling blandly, "Because I feared that the fondness would not be merely one-sided, because I grew tired of worrying where that man had dragged you off to next, because I thought that with him gone such in a way that he wished it to be, he had essentially gifted you to me with his blessings. I thought that your actions would cease after no progress but you…" She sighed and pushed her plate of half-finished food away, "You claimed that I was mulish, you have not seen yourself then."

She was frustratingly vague, vindictively so, but he had to prod as gently as he could. "What do you mean?" He ventured cautiously, "What was one-sided?" Somewhere in the house, the clock struck to signal the pass of another hour. "…Please, Mary."

"At our wedding, just as we were about to leave our friends, I saw Holmes. He looked at me and nodded." She twisted the tablecloth in her fingers as she closed her eyes, reminiscing of the wonderful day, "I took that as a sign of his final acceptance that we were to be together. And then I saw him watching you with an expression as if…" Her eyes opened but they were dazed and stared off into a faraway distance, "as if his heart was being torn into two." Watson's own face was hidden in the shadows cast by the night; his arms were crossed firmly and he did not move. Mary stood and disposed the leftovers into the waste and began the process of cleaning the dishes, "I feared that what Sherlock has for you was not one-sided…" She paused before declaring with resolution, "I will not speak of it so blatantly."

"There was never anything," John said after a long moment of wait.

Mary glanced over her shoulder with a face full of doubt, "I thought that I had lost you but now I'm starting to believe," she sadly mused, "that I never had you to begin with."

Words were so cumbersome in these situations; he couldn't figure out the correct way to comfort her, not after it appeared to be him that was the source of her distress and not, as he had originally thought, his actions. Mary was strong; she was strong enough to, thankfully, voice her concerns, allowing a path of communication between them that is uncommon in most couples. Even with the growing enmity between them: that had respect for one another and that was the basis for civility. Both were aware of the cracks in their relationship though the schism will not be complete until Sherlock Holmes was actually found. It's amazing how the less the detective makes himself known, the more he matters to the household. Resolutely, when Mary's back was turned, John decided to take his leave once more. Exhaustion had begun to set in and creep into his bones, slowly rising up till he was beginning to feel lightheaded. But with her impeccable sense of surroundings, Mary knew of her husband's wish to depart and could not help but impart one last comment unto him.

"A man such as Sherlock Holmes, I would think that he would be able to control the number of witnesses to his person. Dear, did you ever suspect that you haven't seen him because he doesn't wish to be seen by you?" With one last knowing look, she turned back to her household chores, leaving him to his inner turmoil.

That night was a musty night of dead air and humidity that made sleeping nude preferable: all covers were gathered at the floor in an attempt to stay cool. The window was open wide for the slightest breeze, unmindful of the insects that it brought in. Facing the ceiling, John H. Watson dreamed something different.

He suffered from a type of tunnel vision that blurred the lines of architecture and faded corners into such discolor, it was nearly tinted sepia. He saw was what an old man would be able to see without spectacles. It was not known how he had come upon this place or why; but his feet continued to make assured steps deeper down the path shadowed by walls. His thought processes were slower than deemed acceptable as were his reaction times: it was as if he was treading through water- his muscles refused to obey the command to move faster. Streetlights loomed over threateningly- their circle of brightness was, at best, an arm's length from where they stood. Of all the sensations he was feeling at the moment, the strongest one was the obstinate deja-vu lurking in his depths: he has been here before but couldn't figure out when?

Shaken out of his musings, he spotted a distant figure leaning casually against the backdoor of a parlor. It was Sherlock Holmes, dressed in his usual outer-wear and favorite cap, so motionless that one could mistake him for a statue. Feeling joy blossoming in his heart, John hailed his friend, "Sherlock!"

The detective turned his head minutely in his direction and grinned genially- making the inviting motion for John to join him in whatever he was doing. Watson made his way over in brisk steps that gave the impression that he more or less glided along the paved stones and captured his friend in a strong embrace, unable to find the words to describe the feelings that he was experiencing. He had so much to say but he didn't voice out one word, feeling only satisfaction that the man was once again beside him. He pulled the detective in tight and for a full minute could not bring himself to let go or give even the slightest distance. The hug was warmth and centered on the relief that the other man was, above all else, alive.

Eventually, after giving a small sigh, he released his hold enough to peer at his friend, greedily observing every detail. One of his arms, still circled around the man, bumped into the door. The door gave an unnatural reverberation. It echoed like the bells of the local church during a funeral service.

The world tilted and slowed.

The world of dreams is a rather fascinating place to experience and hard to remember. The process of advancing from normal dreaming to conscious dreaming can be likened from walking through the bogs north of London to walking on man-made roads. John had not achieved the second stage and therefore could not catch the inconsistencies in his dream- how the time dilated at the pivotal moments and how the sense of fatalism and predestination never left. Conversations were anticipated and almost scripted: in a way, one was talking to one's subconscious.

Days later, John Watson could still recall how unnaturally vivid Sherlock had been perceived.

Watson was immediately hyper-ware of the detective that was secured in his arms, staring up at him with an unreadable expression, pupils dilated to black pits. Sherlock was exactly the same as John had last seen him sans arm injury: he still wore the blood soaked shirt that reminded of when he was hung in the air with a hook, his mien was worn with exhaustion, shadows were prominent under his eyes, he had not shaved, he still bore the superficial wounds of cuts and bruises on his pale skin. It was amazing that he was still standing and moving about in London. He looked so small, so vulnerable… With his throat suddenly dry, John swallowed nervously: without thought, his hand moved to graze the side of the detective's face, lingering at the corner of his mouth.

His hyperawareness extended beyond noticing the detective and towards heavy atmosphere that fell around them. He could not even begin to explain the motives of his tender actions as he did not know the answer himself. This could be the heralding of a second paradigm shift- another of which that he could not begin to comprehend. It seemed that recently his own mind was a mystery to himself.

"You mustn't try," Sherlock murmured reluctantly. "It wouldn't do you any good." John shakily released a breath. That was the crux of the matter, wasn't it? How much was he willing to dive into the taboo territory at risk of… everything? By now he knew the full consequences of what he desired and what parallels he can draw between the situation he's in and the situation he witness on that fateful evening where in the back alleyways of society. Try as he might, he could not rid the images of the two men lost in their passions, uncaring of the world around them. Try as he might, he could not stop touching his friend.

"What if I wish to?" He hoarsely asked.

The other man sighed, "It's not what we agreed upon, John." He turned away from his hand; John felt his heart grow heavy with his advances rebuffed.

"But if both parties are consenting," he weakly attempted.

"We aren't the only men in the world," Sherlock gently replied, his left hand cupping the side of Watson's cheek, his right hand pressed firmly on his chest, pushing him away, "I'm sorry."

Watson reached out; his hand froze in midair when the other man shook his head. He was so sure, absolutely positive that Sherlock wanted… needed this as much as he did. But then why was it that Sherlock was the responsible one of the partnership? In his absence, the detective crossed his arms, emphasizing the distance between them. A flash of hurt flitted across Watson's face as he inquired, "What did we agree upon?"

Sherlock's gaze sought his own- he was immediately struck by how black they were and how they seemed to glow in the surrounding colorless landscape. The detective's lips quirked up in an ironic smile as his hand went up to adjust the brim of his cap. "Can you not remember? My dear Watson, if you must recall my words to you, of that night on the train, when we were lying prostrate on the ground, ducking beneath Moriarty's bullets, I told you-"

The dream shattered.

The dream shattered but Sherlock's voice did not and continued on as if he was whispering right next to Watson's ear. "This is the last time I shall ask for your assistance," his voice carried a tone that echoed a promise, "As soon as Moriarty is incapacitated; I will never bother you or Mary ever again. This I swear." Awake with the scene still fresh in his mind, Watson whispered the words under his breath over and over again as if testing for their validity. His hand reached up toward the ceiling, his arm stretched toward something that could not be grasped, and then his hand sank back down to cover his eyes. He laughed and he cried; he felt sick.

He stood up and began methodically dressing and cleaning himself. Within ten minutes, he was out of the front door.

The small trail of rising smoke undulated with Mycroft Holmes' rhythmic puffs and drifted lazily towards the high ceiling of his home. Watson found it curious that the man was acting as if he had finished a long day of hard work when in actuality there were still many hours before noon. Mr. Holmes motioned for the butler to refill their drinks before turning back to the doctor, "I'm surprised by your visit, Doctor Watson. I thought that you were the type of person to avoid me since I served as a reminder of my dear brother. Instead, you bring a gift. So what do we have here?" Holmes took the small parcel from the other man and proceeded to delicately pull the strings apart and lay bare its contents. His brows raised a fraction of an inch and his hands froze, fingers still gripping the brown wrapping so tightly that his knuckles whitened. "Well," the man collected himself, "my little brother always had his own way about things- some that serve a purpose that most cannot decipher, others to satisfy his need for show. Care for a smoke?" He casually offered as he set the underwater breath aside.

"No thank you," Watson demurred. It was uncomfortable in the position of a close friend of a 'dead,' somewhat-estranged sibling. The Holmes were tight-lipped about one another to the point that prior to the Moriarty debacle Watson had spotted Mycroft visiting 221B Baker Street for five minutes at a time on two particular cases and in those instances, the elder Holmes was about to leave the compound with snide remark that never failed to infuriate the younger.

"This is definitely mine," the man declared, tapping his lip ponderously, adopting a pose similar to his brother, "There's only one of its kind in the world, there's only one in the world serving the purpose." Watson could remember Sherlock admitting that his older brother had more advantageous mental facilities but couldn't bring himself to use them for work of that of the consulting detective due to chronic laziness.

"Does that mean that you had predicted the final demise of Moriarty to be at Reichenbach?" Watson asked, puzzled. "So you had shown Sherlock the instrument just in case he had need of it? Or was the entire occurrence a long string of good fortune?"

Mycroft Holmes enigmatically smiled and did not answer the question but instead began disassembling the device into smaller parts, "I had suspicions that my dear little brother was alive but had nothing to work on as he didn't leave any hints for me but to you." He hummed and leaned back, resting his head on his balanced hand, staring into his pipe smoke with a strange intensity, "But I shouldn't be miffed- I should've expected it."

After taking a swig of the hard drink that the butler had set down for him, feeling a sensation of burning warmth rush down his chest and rest comfortably below his diaphragm, Watson inquired, "What are you suggesting?" On the spotless table before him, he observed the small, nearly empty, bottle of compressed oxygen, the small mouth piece, and the little switch one had to flick on to start the flow of air. He tried his hardest not to imagine Sherlock trying to fight against the unforgiving currents with nothing but his brother's new toy. The doctor finished his drink in record time under the curious gaze of his host; the butler quickly refilled his glass. Watson steadily met the gaze back and in the back of his head, dimly wondered what Mycroft exactly does for the British government- then his mind helpfully supplied that Mycroft Holmes wasn't as much working for the government as he was the government.

"His tendency of relying upon you more so than I," Holmes replied and casually flicked his wrist; the butler handed him the Daily Gazette. He opened the roll and perused its contents with a keen eye, hiding his face behind the large headlines. "What Sherlock has is the ability of making plans on the spot that still fitted into his greater outline: that quality makes him nigh unpredictable until the last moment, and even then, the aftermath is quite different from what we expected. One of the things that I could never have foreseen was his… ahh, friendship towards you. I would claim that his dependence on you was impractical as there were more qualified men and embarrassing as a whole, especially during your engagement with Mrs. Watson nee Morstan."

John Watson made a noise at the back of his throat, a sort of odd, choking sound: a noise that could be interpreted in a manner of surprise and trying to swallow an alarmed response. Had he had been drinking; he would've spewed its contents all over the upholstery. Heat slowly rose towards his face; he couldn't find the required muscles shoot back a retort that rested on the tip of his tongue.

Not giving any pity for the doctor's embarrassment, Mycroft allowed a smug grin flash across his face, "So you understand it too? Lovely. It's about time. You are the last."

"The last?" He finally managed to sputter out, carding both of his hands through his hair, "So Sherlock did…" Watson quieted down, clasped his hands together, and hung his head, "Mary mentioned at our wedding that he…" he dared to venture as he followed the flowing pattern lines on the rug, extending out until they hit the red border. "Of course he knew." The last words were spoken as if they were the most common of all common knowledge.

"Initially he did not," Holmes helpfully added, clearly enjoying the situation, "He is daft in manners concerning the heart, but brilliant in all other aspects." A small amount of pride leaked into those last words. "I guess that if you are aware that he's alive, it must be no small amount of relief to know that he's alive and well. Here, his latest developments from the today's newspaper," he pushed over a folded section of the newspaper over the table, "read the third and fourth paragraph of the first headline. In fact, read the entire front page."

Watson allowed his eyes to skim across the words: then he stood so abruptly that he almost knocked his glass over, not noticing the alarmed look on Mycroft's face nor how the alarmed face quickly morphed into calculating suspicion. Blood rushed immediately from his head; his knees almost gave way underneath and his vision began to fill with spots that took a few seconds to blink away. After making hasty apologies to the poor butler, he adjusted his hat and tipped it to the host, "Thank you so much for your time, Mr. Holmes, but I find that I must be heading to the portside and I'm already short on time." His apologies were half-hearted at best; his mind was already elsewhere.

As he turned to retrieve his coat and was slipping it on, he heard Mycroft's noticeably bland and emotionless question, "You're planning on following him?" His cadence was one that suggested that a myriad of emotions were hidden behind the thin barrier of monotone.

Watson graced the elder man with a strange look, "Why would I not?" His impatience was starting to show through his increasingly rude demeanor which on any other occasion would have horrified him, but his head kept him occupied by repeating small sections of the small article. Specific phrases bolded themselves as if crying for attention in his near photographic memory such as, "Accident on the Channel: Only One Company's Ship Sails! Foul Play?", "Abrupt Leave by Esteemed Professor of the Much Anticipated Lecture Series of Nietzsche and Kafka!", and "Threat of Mainland Countries Looms Ever Closer!"

For a moment, Mycroft pursed his lips, a variety of emotions flickered across his eyes from surprise to confusion and stopping at acceptance. He finally gave a rueful smile, "Forgive me. With the history between you two, I was under the impression that you didn't return any fondness that he had offered you. I hazard a guess that the assumption was my fault: of course you would be as unpredictable as your dear friend. But you must look at it from my perspective: didn't you want him gone?" Watson's face looked as if it could be carved out of stone. Holmes still sat in his armchair, looking as if there wasn't any rush, as if there wasn't a man standing before him nearly shaking with agitation and tension, "You were the one of the relationship who wished to stop the hectic chases and adventures well known in your line of work. You wished dearly to settle down and so you married. Doctor Watson," he concluded, "My little brother was giving you space that you don't want anymore. The fact that he's giving you any sort of space is unheard of."

The chamber was half-lit with a type of dimness that forces one to offer several minutes for the pupils to dilate, bringing about the air of an interrogation cell. The air was filled with metronomic ticking of the old clock in the corner, echoing throughout the gallery until it was nearly deafening until it could be likened to a stranger beating against hollow wood- the effect emphasized the fact that Watson refused to speak and explain his intensions. The clock also reminded the doctor what must be done. "I need to take my leave Mr. Holmes: time is of the essence," he gritted his teeth.

"There's nothing stopping you," Mycroft rested his hand on one of his knees and motioned towards the door behind him. "Though," he trailed off, that single word forced the other man to glance back just as the butler opened the front door. The elder Holmes glanced back from the high-backed armchair and his voice grew colder until it took the tone of disdainful authority that deigned to gaze upon his underlings. As if an invisible stream of water was poured down his spine, Watson felt like a small animal in the shadow of a bored predator, "Do remember that he is family to me and I watch closely over his health: physical, mental… and emotional." Mycroft Holmes turned back around and dismissed his guest, "Good day, Doctor."

John H. Watson ran through the streets as fast as he could, well aware of the time constraints placed upon him. The elder Holmes' words were accusing and doubtful of his intentions: after all, if he had hurt Sherlock once, what was stopping him from doing so again? Sherlock Holmes was trying to leave him. The mere thought caused Watson's own heart to start breaking not just from physical exertion but from despair. The day was hot, hot enough to make him sweat with exertion, hot enough to make him lightheaded when he refused to slow. _"Didn't you want him gone?" _The last time his chest felt this type of pain was when he had watched Sherlock slowly fall, throwing himself down Reichenbach Falls with Moriarty in tow. _"Didn't you want him gone?" _John urged his legs to pump faster, weaving through the pedestrians on the sidewalks, crossing streets and barely clipping the moving carriages and vehicles.

If he didn't hurry, Sherlock Holmes was going to slip from his fingers… again.

"_Didn't you want him gone?"_

"You're leaving me," Mary whispered in a daze as she stood in the doorway of their bedroom watching him pack his essential belongings into a small bag and picking up his cane that he preferred on more physically intensive days. "I hope that you would come back, but you won't be coming back, will you?" Her voice, low, soft, childish, was accusing him of dreadful things. Watson didn't say a word: he knew contributing would only add to her misery. "Why are you leaving?"

Why was he leaving? He has to leave. She might understand it on some lower level but then again, she may never fully understand his need. Their house felt empty despite its respectable and humbled furniture and friendly color schemes that had the definite woman's touch; it did not welcome him anymore; it was not inviting. What previously was a warm hearth and promise of love and kindness was now tense curtness. There was a transition somewhere that anchored their new perceived ideals of one another and suddenly, they were strangers living in the same house, making up excuses to not sleep on the same bed. There was nothing here for him and everything with _him_. But John wasn't talking.

Mary grabbed his arm and looked up imploringly, "Why?" Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, she struggled not to cry before him, "You're going to leave and this will inevitably draw into a never ending cycle, always running, always away. What…" She refused to release him even when he gently attempted to pry her grip loose and instead jerked to the side and hissed, "It was folly to hope that you would never leave! What type of husband are you, gallivanting off with another? Explain yourself! Explain why I must be the one to suffer for your actions and for your irresponsibility, for you inability to come to terms!" The tears finally fell, "Why must I suffer alone?"

John closed his eyes, feeling guilt slowly crawl up his chest, leaving a bad taste lingering in his mouth. The only boat crossing the English Channel today will leave at one in the afternoon. Though in reality the chances of intersecting the detective's path was about fifty-fifty, John was positive that he would meet his friend there: Mycroft knew it, Mary knew it, John knew it. 'I'm sorry,' John wanted to say, 'I'm very sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm terribly sorry.'

"I always thought that with the aftermath of your latest grand chase, the adventures will have stopped, but there is always more. Was I always the fool to believe that it will one day end?" Mary's voice rose with each sentence. She reached out and pulled his face down and kissed him, pouring all of her anxiety and her heartfelt desperation, hoping to anything that he would respond. He didn't move.

Aftermath was always a strictly literary vocabulary word: it gives the reader a sense of what lies beyond the concept of an end. In a way, where a story ends, a reality continues on- it's a marvelous concept bridging together both worlds. The Episode of Reichenbach Falls was finished but Case of Moriarty was not quite there and the Adventures with Sherlock Holmes will never end.

"John, please."

John H. Watson, friend, husband, gentleman, dipped his head low and, without a returning kiss, without a gentle touch, allowed his mouth to linger by her ear. Mary's breathing slowed as she strained to hear his whispered secret, "I have found the paradox," he breathed, "that if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love."

Mary's breath hitched: she looked up and held his gaze steadily for a few seconds before letting go. With her eyes trained downward, she took his hands and kissed his knuckles before stepping to the side to allow him to pass through. He made the motion to place his hand on her shoulder but she abruptly brushed him off. "Good-bye John," she said curtly with her back towards him. There was so much he wanted to say, to apologize for, but this was neither the time nor the place: and so, with heavy footsteps, he descended the stairs into the foyer, opened the front door, and left the premise.

He did not look back.

The sole ship crossing to France today will leave at one pm: John Watson managed arrived at the dock ten minutes prior. The entire area was chaotic, crowded with families giving tearful farewells, small merchant boys selling small wares for the short trip, stray dogs trailing hopefully behind the sympathetic children who might sneak in some pieces of meat behind their parent's back. Orphaned children darted between legs, searching for chances of pickpocketing until officials chase them off the wooden planks, forcing them to retreat next to a group of lazy fishermen. As he skillfully navigated between the maze of people, John spotted Sherlock's target, a professor fleeing from Moriarty's college, dressed in a high, starched collar shirt covered by a wool coat that did no favors for him in this weather and a hat that overshadowed half of his features. The man's posture, hunch-backed and strung tight, reflected his paranoia. He stumbled as he walked to the gangway and relied heavily on the side rails.

Luggage of all sizes and wooden, marked boxes were being thrown into the storage of the hull area by muscled workers in a remarkable display of teamwork. Smoke billowed out in huge columns from the stacks and saturated the air that was alive with sounds of chatter and ship horns, of captains shouting last call, of ticket masters calling out how many available spots on trips were left, of last minute passengers rushing onto their designated boat just as the gangway was about to be pulled up. It stank of seaweed, moss, and ship exhaust. The incoming tide lapped at the sides of the large beams holding up the walkway to board the ships.

After cajoling, bargaining, and paying a good amount of pounds under the table, one of the workers dressed all in navy blue allowed John to cross onto the lower deck without anyone else noticing, with the understanding that should he get caught, he would only blame himself. John ducked under the small doorway and ended up in a hallway with the door to the boiler room on his left and a drawn map of the English Channel with curved arrows pointing in the direction of the currents.

The farther away from the commotion, the farther away from industry, the cleaner the air became in a near exponential relationship. The crew was rushing about around him, raising the anchor and untying ropes that held it in place. Someone shouted orders; everyone hurried to obey. No one paid him any attention. Their steps echoed heavily of boots against grey metal like that of a heavy rainstorm. The horn blared twice: the workmen began to crank multiple wheels to draw in the long train of thick rope until they came to the last loop knot.

John backed up onto the main deck where the passengers hustled about. A couple ran past him each hefting two large bags; two kids followed behind sharing a small toy between them. A small girl held her father's hand as he pointed out the different species of gulls that were hovering around the stern. Two brothers were already sitting on a small bench drinking glasses of Port. Watson took the stairs up to the promenade just as the ship began to pull away from the dock. There were people standing on the starboard side waving handkerchiefs to their loved ones below. There were entreaties and promises, farewells and well-wishes until everything was a cacophony of noise: each indiscernible from one another. Watson peered out and squinted against the blazing sun. The shouting crowd on the dock seemed to be no bigger than ants. The roads seemed to be as thick as thread. The houses shrunk ever smaller until they blended perfectly like rocks and boulders against the English coastline that was fast sinking into the horizon.

Soon, there was nothing to gaze at but open waters.

He gazed down over the side and watched as the sea, foamed dark blue and green, rushed by. He closed his eyes. The gentle swells gave and pushed; the ship gently swayed a slow rhythmic tempo, hypnotizing him into a trance. Exhaustion overcame his spirit that solely influenced his emotional and mental endurance: he keenly felt the frantic pace of the past weeks finally catch up to him and wash over him in waves such as those splashing against the ship. The clouds gathered and hid the sun behind a mix of haze, mist, and white cotton, allowing the air to cool and a small breeze to blow gently to his side. The clouds seemed to be enveloping his mind, rendering him unable to think clearly: he's so tired, very tired. With his head resting on the railings, he felt his body temperature lower as his mind prepared to collapse into deep sleep.

"Watson?"

Turning to his right to the source of the familiar voice, John H. Watson's eyes snapped open and he found himself staring into the bewildered gaze of Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Interlude

_Author's Note: I don't own Sherlock Holmes._

As Watson chases after the shadow of Holmes, he inadvertently brings forth feelings for the man that he never knew existed.

_Warnings: slash, bad grammar, hint of sexual situations, lack of page breaks_

"Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these, 'It might have been.'"

**AFTERMATH**

_Interlude_

Sherlock Holmes could instinctively tell that the pain that flared in his chest as he watched his long time, dear friend get married was not physical. It warned of a revelation that decided to smack him unpleasantly and abruptly across his face. It was reminiscent of Adler's whips but with a fiery tinge to the tip, a bit more sting than was necessary or possible.

But still he was stubborn. It took him a cable hook through the shoulder, a couple bullet wounds, a shockwave, and a fight to the death with his (whom he now considers) late arch nemesis on the edge of a precipice overlooking Reichenbach Falls before he finally forced himself to admit his feelings- and that was only when Watson showed up just as he was about to execute his final move against Moriarty. A game of shadows, a game of strategy and tactics and contingency plans overlaid with contingency plans all halted in the name of a doctor with windswept sandy hair and a subtly worn formal ensemble. The moment he opened the door to the balcony, Watson was the new element of the chessboard, not even the pawn that had cross to the other side, but an extra move, a slight of hand, suddenly the game turned into a game of cards: the doctor's preferred method of merry. And suddenly, Watson was the final move.

But John was in a risky position of power, too risky, and the percent of success had risen with the new succession and choices of moves and mobility with Moriarty in such distraction- but in Sherlock's endless mind, the percentages were still too low. Because Sherlock didn't mind if he was in danger but god forbid if his dear friend, the only one whose opinion ever meant anything, gets in such situations. Immediately, Sherlock felt that he had to abort to his final fail-safe where both he and the enemy must descend into the waters. There was a pang of sorrow that crept into his heart from the possibility of never seeing the man again, possibly never telling his dear friend that… What?

Revelations herald joy; he was experiencing heralding a numbing shock.

It's a bit peculiar how love is an emotion fairly hard to admit with no limits of embarrassment and shame attached to its obvious tail, but it does feel nice to finally put a name to the reason behind his uncharacteristically clingy actions towards the man. It was easy to observe it clinically from a third person point of view; it was just as easy to be sucked in as soon as you meet said person of interest. There was an abnormally thin barrier between the thought, "Sherlock Holmes loves John Watson," and "I love John Watson."

Moriarty had grabbed him on their descent and had used him as a buffer between the fall and the initial impact where his breath had escaped him, rising upward to blind his enemy. The detective used the opportunity to force the professor's skull down against some rocks, crying out in pain as his own shoulder slammed into a cliff face, only managing a choked gasp. And down and down they fell, two men struggling in the face of near death, swallowing mouthfuls of water, trying to stay conscious of all things. "Grab to neck, angle downwards to reach pressure point, secondary point right above collar bone if first strike is not effective. If enemy attacks to the right, bend spine to minimize damage and hide vulnerable areas and then grasp for wrist and press on vein leading out from the life line. Wait for opportunity and keep at arms distance…" The act of survival almost became a chore: and that was perhaps the scariest aspect of the fight.

But somehow, somehow- Sherlock wasn't sure how- he had pulled himself onto the shallow shore at the bend of the river and dragged himself until he could no longer feel the waves lapping at his feet. He rose up alone, numb and not in his right mind. The memory of the struggle was already starting to fade but he was reasonably certain that Moriarty wouldn't resurface anytime soon. His memory dully informed him that the man was rendered motionless by some sort of head wound without relinquishing details. A breeze blew by, shocking him to the bones and he wondered how in the world he was still alive. "Quite the penchant for understatement," a memory of John seemed to remark at his side, "Stating that Moriarty was felled by a small concussion holds the same impact of stating that Irene Adler has a minor affinity for bondage." Sherlock shivered and sneezed; numbness was beginning to settle in on the wound where the professor had pierced him and spreading outward in a web-like fashion.

It took far too long to find the correct tools to make a substantial fire. Firewood was not scarce but the mere act of moving was an agony. His hands violently shook as he struck stone to flint but after a few desperate tries, a satisfying ember was smoldering in his hands, balanced on top of a meager handful of dry bark shavings. He gently blew and grinned when the rising smoke increased, the heat became almost unbearable, and a fire burst into life. He placed his bundle onto a premade pile of timber and started to strip off his wet clothing. As the warmth kissed his skin, he knew that he would live another day.

The long night gave him ample time to think, to ponder, to determine in a rare stroke of maturity that he and everything associated with him (consultant detective jobs and what-nots) was too much of a hassle for his dear friend, a dear friend that he dearly loved. He closed his eyes and touched himself, imagining a man walking down the street with the aid of a cane, turning towards him with a small quirk in his lips. Sherlock's breath quickened as his hand ghosted upwards over his sensitive skin. The doctor's eyes had a sharp glint in them in preparation for oncoming events (because no matter how much he denied it, John Watson was capable of living on the border between peace and stark terror) that were capable of softening in tender affection for the people that he cares for, namely, Mary Watson. Sherlock stopped his actions, sighed in frustration, and stared morosely through the fire.

Adler had once loftily informed him, citing dubious sources written by dubious authors, that sexual activity is physically hot to the touch. The larger the embodiment of passion, the deeper the warmth penetrates- able to break fevers. "Of course," she had then slyly added, kissing the tip of her dessert spoon, "This means that you must have an ever more intimate relationship with your right hand. You must know it well, every line, every crease, you must dream of your hand every night. Your hand must know you well in return." Sherlock had made a disparaging comment about her own lines and creases which must come from silk ties that lock her against bedposts every night for the King of Bohemia was known for his eclectic tastes in not only recreational activities but also women. Adler had then casually threatened to chain him to the bedpost naked again, this time without the key under a well-placed pillow.

Sherlock gritted his teeth to keep them from chattering and fed the fire another log. He would have released a well-placed curse if his muscles weren't so tense. It's pretty hard to generate a passion for someone who is already spoken for.

Perhaps this would be the perfect chance to enjoy new scenery, to leave home for a while as he starts his hunt across the world for Moriarty's allies. It'll be a sabbatical that will stretch for some long years, jumping from contact to contact. After all, didn't Watson complain daily about his antics, loudly insisting that he wished for a normal life with Mary? It would be best for the man if he did get that normal life that he had craved. If the detective closed his eyes, he could envision the future. One day, he will finally plant his feet back onto English soil, he will visit Watson's new home where there would be a happy family consisting of the doctor, his beloved wife, and a darling angel child or two between them. If there was a place for him in the family, it will be a small place.

The idea of leaving would not fade. Sherlock silently placed a hand beneath his throat and dragged it downward. His heart was crying.

But the decision was made and he was already concocting plans, recalling the world map of Moriarty and his crime ring sitting in his office from memory, as he had hailed a coach, asking for a ride. The driver had taken pity on his countenance and allowed him to sit by his side behind the horses; the driver side-glanced over as he winced from every jostle of the road. His fingers rubbed Mycroft's breathing apparatus, wondering how to discard the instrument. Or should he return it to his brother? After all, it wasn't as though he had asked for permission to use it- not to mention that the entire ensemble was still a prototype. If he ever gets the chance, Sherlock will send a letter filled with his raving reviews with a suggesting that there should be a strap attached to secure it to one's face.

Why not send the instrument to Watson? The doctor would surely recognize the gift. That's a thought, isn't it? A small smile crept to the corners of his lips: it was too good to resist the temptation of leaving one last note- if nothing but to assure his old friend, "Yes. I am copacetic. I am somewhere."

With great difficulty, he dozed on the coach after mentally outlining his plans for the professor's men in the heart of London. It would take approximately two months to rid of the vestiges of the syndicate: it won't be easy, but it was doable- risky, but when has he ever not taken risks? At least the small group in London is rumored to be tame compared to the organizations on the continent. He dreamed of pulling and swift tides, of ineffective punches and the slow dawning of victory on his opponent's face as he weakened his attacks and resolve from fatigue. He dreamed of Moriarty's hands around his neck, choking his as they tumbled about in the currents of the icy waters. He dreamed of kicking fiercely at the man's knees and pressing against a pressure point below his arms, forcing him to loosen his grip and he pushed free, attacking with a clumsy left hook, knocking the professor's head against a rock face. There was a small cloud of red that blended in with the man's hair, quickly dissolving away. James Moriarty stopped moving. The currents pushed the two men apart. The professor began to sink. Sherlock managed to get ahold of high ground. The memory ended. He woke up.

Sherlock Holmes promptly turned to the side and began to gag and heave to his companions' shock. He managed to produce some blood but not much else.

Bringing down Moriarty's crime ring was perhaps his greatest work to date on par with Tolstoy's _Anna Karenina_, Caesar's crossing of the Rubicon, Mozart's _Requiem, _all of which concerned the element of time- patience, waste, and efficiency. Time waste was the absolute embodiment of base. It was an accumulation of his years of experience, of contacts and spies, of working slowly for months upon months for this one final event: the complete destruction of everything belonging to him.

Here arrived the one-leader army. Sherlock was the odd lady on the streets selling hollowed seed jewelry with gypsies, one of the middle class men chatting up with some street urchins, a foreign lord smoking with English barons, the old homeless sitting by the other homeless haunting the back alleys leading out to Thames, a delivery boy sending packages to prominent college men. His recent inventions of urban disguises also served to that purpose. Sherlock was a shadow clinging to the side of a typical lamppost and observing the streets with his trusty binoculars, an outgrowth from an undistinguished side of a brick wall, the flowery pattern of the hideous upholstery that Watson keeps in his study. Mary had spotted him though he doubts that she would say anything.

She knows.

And so he discarded his skin and easily stepped into another. He kept himself busy out of fear of idleness: during the day he was on the move, during the night he was writing threats and hints to specified men. He gave proof that Moriarty was dead and before word could trace its origins back to him, he silenced the informed. If he did manage to sleep fitfully for more than half an hour, he dreamt of two occasions. If he had dreamt of killing Moriarty at the base of the falls, he takes his time to wash his hands, scrubbing at his palms and picking the area underneath his nails, before puking in an adjacent toilet. If he had dreamt of Watson's wedding with its solemn music, respectable audience, and dignified groom walking slowly down the aisle to ask for the hand of his beautiful bride, he woke up crying.

"She knows, you see," Sherlock mumbled as he examined his mien in the dusty mirror after a particularly vivid dream, "Some scholars have attributed to good breeding but a woman's intuition does not obey research articles on the fairer gender's small attributes. Nothing was ever said between us, nothing of value that no one could tell. But she knows. She knew before I did." He saw red rimmed, swollen eyes and a mouth that, though in the past would have the edges always at an upwards tilt, were pulled taut. The sight was horrific. His forehead fell against the cool glass with a low thud as he heaved a sigh.

Barring all of his personal angst, he warmly realized that he had forgotten the satisfaction of watching his efforts bear fruit. He was sitting above everything, overseeing London, both hands out, palms facing downwards, fingers outstretched, and to each finger was attached a thousand little strings attached to thousands of British souls. This was his grounds. He comfortably leaned back on his metaphorical chair of towers, feeling once again at home. Mycroft might be the London government, but Sherlock was the actual city, purging itself of impurities. By now, Sherlock was pretty certain that his brother might have inkling that he wasn't quite dead, though probably not sure how this was achieved. This would probably bother Mycroft a bit. Correction: this would infuriate him. The thought made him crack a wiry grin.

Slowly and slowly, Moriarty's pedestal of secrets crumbled under the weights of its own burdens, the very things that made it successful, under the absence of a foundation.

He took particular, vindictive pleasure in watching those that attempted to take the entire failing network by force via bold coups and other offensives. The new self-proclaimed leaders were very greedy, drawn like moths to flame as the Professor's previous position was very profitable, to say the least. But none of them could even hold Moriarty's shoes, much less fit into them. One needs inhuman-like genius to balance a metaphorical, inverted pyramid. Sherlock Holmes gleefully refrained from releasing all of his influences just to watch the circus act of the young and old upstarts try their hand: gathering followers, squirming under the first signs of failure, and then disappearing from society as another statistic. The underworld does not tolerate failure. The number of persons reported missing was climbing at an alarming rate.

"One-four-three-three-seven," Sherlock Holmes had muttered as he dug chalk into the side of a London office building, the white numerals stark against the backdrop. Wiping his hands on a handkerchief, he had stepped back to survey his work with a critical eye. At exactly twenty-two minutes to the hour, a little boy will see the defacement and inform his mother, who was one of Moriarty's runners, who will understand the message and blanch horribly, and hurry to inform her own superior of the message. Hopefully this will reach all the way down to the echelons of society so he wouldn't have to go through the trouble of making another symbol. The point was to make them nervous- to make them flee so that he may follow.

"That looks quite tiring," a voice from an associate had remarked behind him, "Nicely done, though. You're quite dedicated. How do you ever manage to tolerate this sort of lifestyle?"

"I wasn't really alone, if that is what you are implying," he had sharply retorted.

He entertained the thought that the moment he had gathered his forces together, every criminal from here to the shore had shivered in unexplainable, stark terror. Every single contact that he has ever made, every man, woman, trained mongrel, anyone that ever owed him a favor since the dawn of his fruitful career were called in for assistance. All were favors that his contacts were happy to offer. Sherlock likes to think that it's mainly due to his infamous skills of deduction that had struck the killing blow to history's largest organization of crime, but the truth was that it was a cooperative effort that rendered Moriarty's shadows no more of a worry in Britain.

"Well," he hastily corrected, "I wasn't before. I am now."

There had been a brief lull in noise where it was uncharacteristically silent enough in London for one to hear the horns on the ship docks along the river. "That is unfortunate. My condolences," the other had mildly remarked before pointing out, "Mind the blood at the lower left corner, I think our target has already passed by this area and was attacked by one of our men. I can send out a statement to White and Walker and ask for them to make haste."

"No need for well-wishes," the detective had distractedly replied as he examined the blood spatter. "Watson isn't dead." The pattern was too low for a deliberate attack and too concentrated to be a clean cut. There was a small trail leading down a road before ending at a slightly larger puddle, already dried and crusted red. "This blood is from one of your men that came from a mild wound on the forearm, probably his right or our target's right. The surprise flanking maneuver… two days ago… did happen but apparently our target has a weapon on his, something hidden, small, serrated- hasn't been sharpened in a while."

"Oh dear. That would explain Hoskins's injury- I will need to question him on the details after he returns from his family." Tomorrow, he will be meeting a man from the underground that runs a bar in the shadier areas of the Thames neighborhoods. On the day after he will send men to actively pursue his targets, far enough not to be implicated but obvious enough to raise one's paranoia. His associate had smacked his lips thoughtfully, "The doctor isn't dead, you say. Even if your doctor friend isn't dead, like everyone had thought it was for your situation, it's just as bad isn't it, Detective Holmes?"

For that, Sherlock had nothing to say.

"Rats and sewers," Irene Adler had once whispered as she blew smoke into his face. She tipped ashes into the little tray sitting on the table between them and mockingly sighed in a lovingly fashion. "I had originally believed that we differed from those who saw mice and forest, as we saw rats and sewers, long having lost our faith in our brethren. But you," her hand looked ghastly in the lights casted from the windows, "you suddenly gained a John Watson. And suddenly, you don't see rats and sewers, leaving me here in the filth, seeing filth, feeling filth, smelling filth, every day. And I see you out there smelling of roses." Her smile was of a young orphan with small feces smeared on her face by older street boys, of an aged, disabled woman with only half a cane in her hands, wondering how she can function. "I'm not technically leaving you since you are gone already. I wish you the best of luck with your very own John Watson."

But he wielded nothing.

On lonely nights, he missed the presence of his only friend that it pained him to breath. Every night was a lonely night. He missed Watson's fond exasperation at his antics and willingness still to follow him to the ends of the Earth. You don't just find a man like that on the streets. He has been taking and taking. All Sherlock Holmes ever did was _take_.

He is so grateful.

It was time that he must stop taking. This was the right time, he believed, to allow Watson to fall into the safe arms of his dear wife. Even if his chest contracted every time he merely thought about the wedding, his decision was steadfast: John H. Watson will have a good life.

What's left for Sherlock? Yes, yes, what is left for the famed and deceased Detective Sherlock Holmes?

There was still that initial idea, wasn't there?

A journey around Europe, a journey around the world: to see the sights before his bones begin to protest of their age. Sherlock calmly adjusted his hat as he boarded the ferry to France: one that he had painstakingly made sure was the only ferry leaving for France for this day, for this week, certain that the last of Moriarty's men was trapped on this small vessel, easily ambushed. After landing, he will set his sights on liberating Paris, then the small area of Nantes, where he'll then head west across Spain to Portugal and then through the Mediterranean Sea and finally back east along the coast of the dying Ottoman Empire: he'll hit maybe the remnants of the Crimean War. He has contacts in Moscow who would be willing to offer him room and board. Pity Irene wasn't here with him: she shared the same taste of adventure as he.

"Excuse me. Oh, sorry there, ol' chap," someone muttered as they brushed past him, "didn't see you there."

He was on a boat of modest size for a modest amount of people. The paints on the railings, once a proud, forest green, were chipping, revealing rusting metal underneath, rusting faster with the incoming mist. The horn blared and disappeared nearly as fast as it came. The windows were dusted on both sides with sea-crust sticking to the edges where the workmen failed to clean. The dank air held faint hints of moss and boiler smoke, combining together to form an acrid combination. The water mercilessly slapped against the starboard, rocking it steadily, causing a good number of the passengers to turn peak.

"Wave at them! We won't see them for another year. Farewell!" A woman cried, waving her handkerchief at the crowds below on the pier. Others followed her lead.

Stepping back from the commotion, the detective counted to sixty, taking deep breaths, feeling his heartbeat slow to a contented pace as the boat pulled from shore. Then he was on the move: weaving between families and luggage, keeping his eyes forward as his peripherals noted a man sneezing behind a worn handkerchief, a figure hiding behind a newspaper that was a month old, of a child running by with a polished briefcase - retaining any information that would be useful for the future. There were plans to be made; plans to execute. His feet were hitting the floorboards in a practiced tempo, fleet footed in its complacency, comforting in its uniformity as his mind raced until-

He turned a corner.

He froze.

Time… Time innumerable… Time ineffable… It froze him into where he stood- he could be a statue forever if he hadn't shaken himself from the sight. A million things entered his mind and a million things passed by. Initially, he honestly believed that a perfect combination of exhaustion and depression had begun to interfere with his observation and deduction. But the vision did not fade.

There was a man directly in his line of sight facing the sea, slumped against the metal railings in a familiar stance. He wore a familiar coat and slacks that had been pressed but carelessly placed upon. Small amounts of dust had gathered on the hems and on his shoes: he had been running in the streets. He was favoring one leg over the other. "…Watson?" The man turned. He had sandy yellow hair as disheveled as his dress wear. The circles under his eyes were pronounced and extended down his face to a pair of sunken cheeks. The detective fought hard to not widen his eyes in obvious surprise. John Watson had seen much better days. "Good god, what did Mary do to you? Wasn't the married life supposed to be more agreeable to a gentleman such as yourself?" Sherlock winced: he hadn't thought that one through too thoroughly. The comment was part joke and all incredulity. Watson's features had hardened as if a plant has dried with no amounts of water, shriveled and brittle, more sturdy in tepid air but about to collapse into a pile of decompose at any moment. His air reminded Holmes of Kafka's hunger artist.

John Watson did not shift from his perch but turned his head in a way that an owl would and tilted his dead down, expressionless. Sherlock cautiously approached in case that he truly was hallucinating and placed three fingers on the man's cheek: feeling a face that has been poorly shaved. He noted humorously that should this man be a mirage, a bystander's sight must surely be an unusual one. Watson surveyed him with another emotion that he couldn't fathom- one that he was entirely unfamiliar with and for a moment, Sherlock wondered if he had pushed too far into the man's personal space. "What are you doing?" John whispered.

"I'm making sure that you are real, my dear friend." The detective replied, giving the cheek one last shameless, affectionate pinch, "You shouldn't be surprised, if you see it from my point of view. I momentarily feared that I was too engrossed into my plans to dismantle Moriarty's Eurasian network that I had neglected my health: physical and mental." Sherlock stepped back and grinned with his usual exuberance, "Never mind that, I believe my eyes, strange as what they present to me. Are you ok?"

The doctor's eyes flitted to both corners before grabbing Sherlock's wrist to prevent him from placing anymore distance between them, "Why did you send me the package of the underwater breathing device?" His voice registered at a lower baritone than was typical with a hoarse, scratchy undertone. Sherlock guessed that this was due to sleepless nights, even nightmares where one wakes up unknowing that they had screamed through the entire dream, where one is suddenly severely depleted of human interaction that a conversation is suddenly a chore. His friend's hands were trembling. He really was Kafka's starving artist: the detective could only wonder what he was fasting for. But if Watson decided not to comment, then it would be in Sherlock's best interest to not bring it up: especially when past attempts have failed.

"Wasn't really a message, was it?" Sherlock lightly replied, laughing nervously, suddenly all too aware of the hand burning it's mark into his skin, "I just wanted to reassure you that I was still walking. I couldn't resist one last farewell present. At least," he thoughtfully frowned in puzzlement, "I thought it was a farewell. But you are here now, standing before me." The last sentence faded into a whisper: conveying the truth of Sherlock's bewilderment that John was at his side and of his assumption that they were never to see each other for a long time, possibly forever. Something flashed in John Watson's eyes, something so quick and fleeting and unreadable. Sherlock huffed in annoyance: Watson was never this enigmatic. The stagnant air was heavy enough to weigh down his joking manner: it was enough to block his eyes from the noise of the other passengers on the ship, dulling their distant voices and cries into a faint roar: or maybe that was just the sounds of the water.

John Watson slowly released his wrist and reluctantly pulled away. The movement was so slow that Sherlock could still feel the ghost of the other's hand supporting his weight, hand dangling by the wrist. He stared at his hand in bemusement and then rolled his shoulders awkwardly back, feeling entirely too small in a too stiff shirt. Sherlock searched his friend for more clues, careful to avoid his eyes: those eyes were unnerving. Watson has changed dramatically for the small time that he was gone that was worrisome. Was it…

"What about Mary?" He attempted to venture.

The glare that John Watson gave was venomous, daring his companion to speak more. "What about her?" The detective was so taken aback by his answer that it takes him a few moments to find his bearings. He turned away to face the sea, feeling a bit troubled and entirely not used to such enmity from such a familiar face. Immediately, out of the corner of his sight, he observed guilt descending upon his friend like a dark cloud. The doctor calmed down, let out a long breath, and rubbed a hand across his face. It was an emotion that Sherlock thankfully was familiar with and it gave him new confidence to keep pushing.

"Can you at least tell me how you knew that I was leaving?" He curiously prodded, leaning more of his weight against the ship rails, feeling the small wave crashes create mist that kissed his fingers.

"…Deduction." The doctor cracked a smile: one that was broken and rusted but it was an attempt all the same, "It was elementary."

This is progress. Sherlock Holmes cocked his head in surprise and beamed at him, "Excellent! Never change my friend."

Everything is normal. Watson was immediately filled on the information regarding his investigation and his plans on the mainland. Everything was radical. The idea meant risking for a new life, a new name, new adventures, for Sherlock Holmes, in the eyes of the world, is dead.

Everything is normal. Holmes was the type to look at a gifted horse in the mouth but in this situation, he will look as discretely as possible. But it was quite hard when there was absolutely no evidence or clues to build anything on besides the initial observation of John Watson in such a mad state and his slow healing under Sherlock's careful watch. Sherlock wanted to know why. _Why? Why? Why?_ As they moved from city to city, Paris to Prague, Madrid to Frankfurt, Amsterdam to Tunis, Leningrad to Warsaw, dismantling one piece of the Professor's crime ring after another, the normal partnership was there. There was Holmes and there was Watson.

Everything is normal. John seemed to be satisfied to avoid the fact that he had abandoned his newly wedded wife to go chasing a dead man's work across the continent. Mary Watson nee Morstan was a topic that they don't ever talk about- ever. It was essential that Holmes must avoid glancing into that mouth of the gifted horse. The gifted horse was a stallion of many mouths. Mrs. Watson was a topic to never be touched upon.

Everything is normal. John seemed to be aggressively possessive- Sherlock would rather that fact belong as a part of his imagination but one can't ignore the fact that the doctor seemed very reluctant to lose any physical contact: there was always the tug at the wrist or the hand on the back or the arm around the shoulder. Not to mention that John was behaving this way solely towards Sherlock. John is impossible to read these days.

So life went on for a consulting detective and his companion: a life that was a fast paced, unforgettable, whirlwind.


	3. Chapter 2

_Author's Note: I don't own Sherlock Holmes of any incarnation. I apologize for the lack of action that is noted in a real Sir Arthur Conan Doyle plot. __Also, I totally rushed through this chapter - so if your willing to try to make improvements, be my guest. But if I don't finish this now, I'm never going to._

As Watson chases after the shadow of Holmes, he inadvertently brings forth feelings for the man that he never knew existed.

_Warnings: slash, bad grammar, hint of sexual situations, lack of page breaks, POV switches as obvious as Anna Karenina_

"And that is how change happens. One gesture. One person. One moment at a time."

**AFTERMATH**

_Chapter 2_

John H. Watson reflected the sea in countenance and temper and the sea reflected in its monotonous view of the waves his thoughts and what he suspect he is feeling. Mary…

Well, Mary…

Mary was love from the gentle doting from a woman to her husband. Mary was the guarantee of a stable, quiet future with a solid family. Mary was nice dresses and petticoats, respectability in society through etiquette, soft curves and houses containing a womanly touch.

"- send a message to dear Mycroft. Poor fellow must be worried sick, I don't doubt," Sherlock Holmes stood at his side dutifully filling a black hole with noise. "On another topic, I have procured tickets for the -." John felt his heart lift and soar, warming itself as it tucked itself into a furnace that was the detective's presence. His contentment gave a pleasant ache about his body: Holmes embodied the feeling of belonging. With him, Watson felt his other half fulfilled. This man is very alive, so different from his wife, so… the exact description is still intangible, the strongest feelings usually are.

The adventures continued in the same manner as it has always gone. Life went on despite how much one wishes that it would stop. The duo acted as delicately around each other, reflecting their unease at a situation where each could only comprehend half of the problem, where each refused to communicate to the other. Holmes led the chase around the world, planning, plotting, scheming, cornering- the list of verbs could go on. Twice he attempted to talk about Mary. Watson's reaction was not pleasant. On the other hand, after the initial fear of John leaving his side once again, Sherlock brushed pass the strangeness with the experience of one who had many strange things occurring in his life, with the experience of one who is an expert at mental compartmentalization, of one who is good at ignoring the human element. It was typical of Holmes.

To Holmes, everything was alright.

There was a moment when they sprinted out of the sniper's scope view, cutting across an industrial factory making ores and a tool, swatting with their hands at the flyaway sparks from all the friction of metal against metal. There were men at their heels like hounds, nipping at their Achilles' tendons with an assortment of weapons that couldn't be identified in the darkness, ordered to cripple but not kill by a voice speaking in a mix of the Baltic accents.

To Watson, everything was not alright.

There was a moment when the duo was crouched in a small café behind two potted plants that were dusty from the city smog as the mob ran by their hidden alcove with their modern pitchforks and torches. After assured of their safety once again, Detective Holmes barked a laugh and ran a hand through his hair, grinning madly. He grabbed Watson's hand, fingers entwined; each curled over another, as he hopped out into the streets and dashed in the opposite direction. But as soon as the rush of danger passes, he will let go of the hand – he will let go in a manner of someone who realized that he's stroking fire.

The strained normalcy was irritating and not even the repeated success of their goals could calm John H. Watson. He was a soldier unused to covert fronts with intricacies and intrigue- especially to the man who he had abandoned his wife to follow. With much longsuffering, he endured the Holmes-esque plots noted infamous for their touch of hare-brained now with the subtle influence of Adler added and mixed. His foul mood was deprioritized in times of great stress, when great power was at stake - the initial weeks of tailing and assisting the detective after much overtures had distracted him from his more unpleasant thoughts. But with Moriarty's remaining forces so weak and scattered, with time to rest and to ponder about life and how frustrating it could be to be waiting, a tense string strung between Watson's mind and his heart, pulling ever tauter as the one thing that he wanted he could not have becomes ever more relaxed in the status quo antebellum.

"Are we going to allow the problem to sit there and fester?" He wished to shout to the heavens but instead bit his lip, to the point of nearly letting blood, "Are we truly not going to act? Are we cowards?" This willingness for ignorance is grating on the soul – there's a subconscious realization that both men want something – neither speaking, neither reaching, neither moving. Watson could see that any end to this madness all depended on him, but he kept his strong opinions to himself, finding that it was harder and harder to keep from challenge his friend's notions of fun as they continued eastward.

He kept his tongue until he couldn't hold it any longer.

The irony is that the plan of topic concocted by Detective Holmes was one of his most elegant and greatest yet, much better than that disaster they had with Lord Blackwood and his string of faux-supernatural murders where everything was being played by half an ear. The brainchild involved a battle maneuver to flank Moran's power and to corner them in a deal with the Austria-Hungary underground dissidents – Sherlock's proof of pinnacle of genius. It was a beautiful plot with contingencies within contingencies and enough flexibility to be virtually full-proof: so full-proof that the doctor could see every possible step that can fail, every small micro-chasm: Augustus De Morgan's Law has never been stronger. He's had so much practice staring at the half empty glass that he can't look at it any other way.

"No." John H. Watson shook his head adamantly, crossing his arms and tapping his cane against the floor in agitation, "Hypothetically, you do get caught by Moran's men: do you think they will be more or less merciful to you than Moriarty?" He leaned back, feeling the train moving across the tracks, so fast that the unevenness of the iron makes way for a dull hum, cautiously soothing his nerves. The wooden bench, padded by cushions, creaked in protest. "Moran's savageness was concentrated by Moriarty to a single point, without the Professor, he's out of control. What says you?"

"I…" The detective was lost of words and then clasped his hands together earnestly and settled them over his knee, "I thought that the proposal is rather ingenious. The reason why I would declare it foolproof would be its element of unpredictability. If Mr. Moran does not expect us, then he wouldn't pull out more of his men in a means to intercept us." His eyes pleaded for an agreement that Watson felt faint stirrings to give out but ruthlessly squashed back. "I won't get caught. Nothing bad will happen. You need not worry."

"And if I recall this conversation when I see you impaled and hanging upon a hook? What would you wish for me do if I witness your death?" The doctor pushed, finding satisfaction when his companion winced at the phantom pains, hands unconsciously raising themselves to the puncture site via machinery hook above his breast. A flash of memory tore through his head: a small table with a finished chess game, Sherlock and Moriarty had stood at the balcony when he entered into the all-encompassing tension – Sherlock had glanced behind with a frightened gaze before his eyes narrowed in a split calculating thought. And then the detective had wrapped his arms around his nemesis and they jumped off to the abyss. His heart clenched in shock, denial, horror, pain – pain overwhelmed everything else. John kneaded the skin between his brows and his temples, "The reason," he slowly explained as if speaking to a child, "that I followed you on this barking mad plot around the world was to protect you, not watch you get killed." Again.

"How does this occurrence differ from all the other instances?" His friend peered through his messy bangs with a confused expression, referencing their entire life in London. "This is the prime directorate of how we operate," he reached over as if to place his hand on Watson's leg but drew back inches away. He nervously cleared his throat.

Watson's mind offered various reasons that he could not say- reasons such as _since I realized that you were not above the follies of man_ or _if I go to another funeral service of you, it will kill me_. A hanging silence drifted between the two men before drowning in the hum of the train.

The absence of sound agitated the detective more than the doctor. "I mean," Sherlock licked his lips, "It's never bothered you before." That statement, spoken with bewildered frankness, hurts Watson more than he will ever care to admit. "Oh no, I didn't mean it in that manner. Sorry, if I'm insulting you, I wouldn't, it's a bit hard to read you, my friend, if I don't know what you're thinking. Don't look at me like that, I may be the world's greatest detective but I can't hear what you don't say. If I did, I would find my business elsewhere outside of consulting." He breaks off, unsure of what he wants to say, trying to equate it with what he is saying, growing increasingly nervous at the dark mood surrounding his friend's body. "You weren't supposed to follow me," He muttered loud enough that John's head snapped up sharply, "The past few days, I've reevaluated these ideas which originally had the assurance that you weren't here – they didn't allow space for the help of someone that I can wholly trust. With you here, well, I had to add more. And yes, this great plan is imperfect from the lack of time." The detective didn't notice his friend's stare as he was engrossed in wringing his hands and rubbing his palms together, "You can't expect me to adjust so quickly. I'm one man."

John closed his eyes as he mentally reviewed the subtext in between the words. Sherlock had plotted with the belief that he was venturing alone, that there was a sharp possibility that he would die alone – that he would live solely through the memory his masterpiece. And when Sherlock died, Watson was expected to live in ignorance with Mary in marital bliss, never knowing, never even suspecting. It was blissful ignorance. It made him sick to his stomach.

Sherlock determinedly reached over to grasp Watson's hands, fingers grazing along palms, thumbs smoothing over skin, "I don't wish for you to leave me, don't take this as an invitation to leave. Though," he hurriedly added, "If you do truly wish to leave, I will not stop you. But you must know that I don't see you as a burden. I am inextricably happy in your presence." Wary of Watson's tendency to storm away when angry, he secured his grip on the other's hands. "Watson, look at me." His eyes flitted over Watson's features, blue eyes to brown eyes, "Please don't be angry. I see you as my closest and most dear friend – I know that I usually don't express my feelings in the most obvious manner and tend to lead to actions subjected by… well… But I thought that you ought to know, in case, but if you already are aware, that is good too." Holmes took a shallow breath and struggled to speak, "So I'm going to inform you that you are positively the best thing to have happened to me and our companionship is years strong, strong enough weather through all challenges, strong enough that the bond even transcends-." He caught himself just before he revealed his less than proper affections and let go, leaning back into his seat in a self-aware horrified perspective of how close he was to losing control and spilling secrets.

His face burned from how ashamed he felt talking about something that he instinctively grasped as the Taboo subject. There's no reason to why the doctor wished to follow him, seeing that there is an unexplainable impasse that should break their friendship (it should but its not). In the aftermath of his fake death, Sherlock Holmes had wished, somehow hoped beyond all measure that John would appear at his side – and was rendered speechless when that wish came to fruition. But now it seems as though this partnership was taking a turn for the worse. Why was the doctor following him? There was no reason.

"Yes."

Sherlock blinked out of his thoughts, "Pardon?"

"I said yes." The words were spoken with a finality that didn't allow further inquiries. There can only be so many gifted horses before one feels the need to start asking why. As always, there was no reason.

There were nights when they slept in the same bed of a rundown hostel or nunnery, something that they had usually done on long haunts around London in the past to save time, money, and prepare in the case of a need for immediate action. But these nights were uncomfortable. There was a distinct effort to not meet the other's eyes and to, in the most casual way possible, maintaining respectable distance of bodies. Sherlock took his time to stare at the ceiling, listening to the slow beat of his heart matching the slow breathing coming from his partner, patiently waiting for sleep to claim him.

Three days later, Sherlock wondered if John regretted his words, as footsteps muffled under the sound of constant downpour slowly crept towards the sounds of shouting and shooting; the duo hurriedly ran out of the sudden ambush from the country's rebels and Moran. A normal negotiation with Moran's men had suddenly turned into a three way battle with people falling left and right, bodies thudding to the floor, bleeding out of newly made holes. Sherlock suffered some grazes and his hat was a lost cause only a minute into the fire. John wasn't hurt, soldier that he was, crack shot as well with fierce instincts that made the enemies tremble. He had taken out his own weapon, leaved over the storage box, shot once, and Sebastian Moran fell with a bullet hole fitted perfectly between his eyes. Sherlock had stared at his friend, cocking one eyebrow up in disbelief, and received a nonchalant shrug in return.

"What is most interesting," Sherlock had loudly noted before everything turned South, giving John's hand a reassuring squeeze, "is that you have a hunting rifle in your possession and a hidden pistol – nothing else, which could say two things. You are overly confident in the efficiency of your men to draw and shoot or you simply ran out of arms. Is it the lack of funds? Feeling the slight pinch in your wallet, Sebastian?" The pinch of Sebastian's face told him much more. Thank god that there were no snipers – Sebastian couldn't pay them for services either.

Only, they never expected a fourth party to enter the fray, a couple representatives from a weapons manufacturing company that had bought along a couple of samples as a gesture of good-will. Moriarty's investments should have fallen flat, with the way that Sherlock had completely decimated and gleefully burned to a crisp all of his businesses – then how…

Someone threw him onto the floor as heat slammed into his right side, shielding from most of the blows. His breath left him, vaporized in the incoming shockwave that pushed him back towards the broken industry building wall.

And then it's over.

The world tilts and the ringing in his ears are unbearable. The ringing tones down from a high pitch whine to a low thrum. His hands shake and the blood trailing down from his shoulder to his fingertips scatter before him. It takes a while to place where he was – who he was.

There was silence except for the rain. There are quiet people in the backdrop twisted in all sorts of positions. There was a flame crackling merrily moments ago but slowly fizzling and dying out till there are ashes and ashes and ashes mixed with spreading pools of blood. The rain soaks him to the bone till he is hyper aware of the wet rivulets seeping greedily over his skin as the adrenaline slowly wears down.

Watson has half of his body supported by the destroyed wall, his right hand clutching at the entry site where bomb shards had entered. Sherlock was frantically pulling all the layers of clothing back trying to reach his side. As soon as he reached skin, he started to gingerly pick out the large pieces as Watson attempted to instruct him between coughing up blood, "Don't snap away, extraction is a matter of delicacy, Holmes. But you already know these things, don't you? As a veteran of this sort."

"Keep talking," the detective muttered, engrossed in his work and afraid to glance up, "Don't fall asleep." His one hand braced against the skin, ignoring the trail of blood moving slowly between his fingers. Blood smelled like metal but his sense of smell has disappeared. Or maybe, Sherlock leaned in to examine his work before reaching for the bandages: or maybe the entire industrial site is in danger of rust – with the obvious destruction of the roof. "I forbid you from closing your eyes," he idly wiped away a small trail of blood from Watson's brow.

Watson makes a small noise between a grunt and a whine, "You're such a mother hen." Sherlock pulls and tightens the bandages with an abrupt tug before ripping the end away with his teeth. Then he leans back to reach into a pocket and takes out a flask of alcohol and a syringe filled with an ominous red liquid and a covered needle tip. John's face flashed through many emotions before settling on one of open trust, he doesn't even ask questions, "It's the-." His breath hitches when he pours the alcohol in liberal quantities on the wounds, "It's the least I could ever do. For… For…" John squinted, "What is in that medication that you just gave me?"

"It'll help with the pain. Just don't sleep, not yet," Sherlock lifted an eyelid to inspect the pupil before making an agreeable noise.

"I never thought that," Watson's head fell against Sherlock's bare collar, his breath danced across his skin, encouraging goose bumps to form. The detective eyed his friend critically before relaxing his frame, a silent acknowledgement of the action. "I never thought that," the doctor tried again, "That this would be a conclusion, though it seemed inevitable. At the moment I knew that you were alive, I couldn't stop. I kept running and running and running away from what you were trying to keep me in, away from what I thought was best for me – and into what? This?"

"To be honest," Sherlock choked out, "I've been wondering why too." His heart beats a bit stronger – much too painful for him to control. "You shouldn't be like this – this is why you should've stayed behind. You don't know how much it hurts seeing you like this. It's more dangerous now, my dear Watson, it's not like the days when we had clients coming in and it was a game to deduce which parts of London they hailed from. This… is… a mistake." Watson shifted his head to rest against the junction of his neck and shoulder – Sherlock closed his eyes and rested his forehead onto the others. He waited for the medication to kick in and watched as the man's pupils continue to dilate, "You're dangerously feverous. I'll take you to a safe house- there are people who owe me favors that can shelter us. I'll look after you and see to your well-being. And then I implore you to return home to London where Mary is waiting – please, as soon as you can walk, you must leave. This isn't safe. Promise me."

Watson shifted his head and tilted his head just so and caught the detective's lips, biting gently on the bottom lip and running it with his tongue. The heat spread between them, warming their cores against the pouring rain as the doctor pulled Sherlock closer, desperate for more fire. It takes ten seconds for his friend to still in surprise and let out a shuddering breath and pulled back.

The rain still poured. Sherlock's eyes betrayed heartbreak, "You aren't thinking properly. Please sleep." Please forget this.

"Sherlock, I…"

"Please sleep," Sherlock whispered and leaned forward to press a kiss onto his friend's lips. John was barely holding onto conscious, but at this point, Sherlock was sure that he would live through this event, if not scarred. The affection seemed to sooth the doctor, just enough to convince him to close his eyes.

He dreamed of Mary's face, bright, happy, then sad and dark. He dreamed of a familiar silhouette in that familiar coat with that familiar hat giving him a jaunty wave before walking away until he blends with the background. He dreamed of fire running down from his mouth and into his stomach.

John Watson woke up in a small cozy room with the smell of tea hovering by his senses. The light from the window gave a yellow hue – early morning or a sunset after a rain. There's someone resting at the bedside. Sherlock was slowly stirring from his sleeping position half sprawled over the bed; his wrist was in a tight grip in Watson's hand. After several minutes of quiet breathing, Sherlock was attempting to extract himself from Watson's hold but Watson wasn't having any of it and his grip tightened.

Still rubbing sleep from his eyes, Sherlock looked back at his wrist with a quirk to his lips, "We had quite a night, my dear friend, and though you've already slept an entire day, you should sleep more to regain more of your energy." Sherlock's visage was a mass of fatigue and exhaustion – his shoulders were slumped forwards.

"I remember everything," Watson cautiously offered, his throat still sore from his cold. "I don't want you to leave me." His eyes greedily took in the other's countenance.

Sherlock's expression ran through a variety of emotions: each one more fleeting than the other. His stance was frozen, almost like prey cornered by a predator. Watson took the chance to tug Sherlock with his good arm, causing the other to lose his balance and collapse into bed with an ungraceful yelp. He wrapped his arms around the slighter man to prevent escape. Sherlock whined in protest and half-heartedly struggled against his binds.

"Shh, calm Sherlock." Watson muttered, digging his face into his companion's neck. Slowly, Sherlock listened.

Watson waited for Sherlock to doze off before adjusting his grip on the man to prevent what he was sure to be another escape attempt in the near future. He shamelessly made sure to tangle their legs together. He blinked a bit at the weak light from the window, listening to breathing, listening to conjoined hearts. He felt his body relax.

Because now was not the time to dwell on new developments, there's always morning to face the challenges. "Promise not to leave." Then Watson closed his eyes, and he too, was dreaming.


End file.
